little smash face and friends
IT WAS ONE of those picture-perfect summer evenings in the Pacific Northwest, our big backyard alive with birds singing and fluttering about the flower beds and feeders that my husband, Dennis, and I had put out to welcome them. Fuchsias, begonias, hibiscuses, peonies, petunias—a riot of color.
Washing the dinner dishes, I gazed out the window at our sanctuary and let my mind wander. These last few years had been difficult. I’d developed an autoimmune disorder and had to quit my job. Soon after, severe pain in my muscles and joints resulted in a diagnosis
